


Hotel Splendide

by mydogwatson



Series: Postcard Tales II [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 1920s, AU, First Meeting, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-15 11:21:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7220320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is on a case in a seafront town when he meets a most interesting man at afternoon tea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hotel Splendide

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this begins Postcard Tales II. You seemed to enjoy the first batch and so I hope these meet with your approval as well. A longer trip means more stories! Four of the cards have not turned up yet, but I take a picture of each one before I mail it from London, so all is well. Some of the titles are less than inspiring, but please give them a chance anyway. I groaned more than once when I pulled some of the titles, but in the end, I am happy with the results. Let me know what you think!

The hotel, with its tidy red brick façade and slightly shabby painted wood trim, was located on the least fashionable boulevard of this most fashionable beach town. The pretentious name of the establishment spoke to ambitions that never had and never would be realised. At least the windows were clean and the stoop had been recently swept.

The Hotel Splendide clearly catered to a more painfully genteel and less moneyed class than did the grander establishments along the boardwalk. Its guest register would be filled with the names of several specific types of persons. Unmarried women of a certain age, their lovers or fiancés lost at Verdun or Ypres, with not enough men available to replace them. Or ne’er-do-well second sons living on unsatisfactory allowances coming from an increasingly straited gentry not yet recovered from the War. Probably the hotel also catered to the occasional travelling purveyor of various household items or mercantile goods.

In short, a wholly civilised clientele, which would take tea at three, dine at seven, and rarely complain about anything save to one another.

It would suit his purposes very well indeed.

 

As planned, Sherlock walked into the parlour during the aforementioned tea. The room was a symphony of roses, chintz and ruffles, with a badly played piano providing soft music over the sounds of tea being stirred and quiet conversations. At least, it wasn’t a badly played violin, which he would have found unbearable. 

His entrance created a bit of a stir amongst the gathered guests. Again, just as planned. His perfectly tailored linen suit and pistachio-hued shirt paired with a creamy ivory silk tie, as well as the deliberate lack of a hat over his unfashionably tousled dark curls, all served to attract the gaze of every woman in the room. Not excepting the waitresses.

At the same time, Sherlock’s own gaze wandered the room purposefully, gathering information, until his eyes paused on a small table set a bit apart in one corner of the room. _Now this is interesting. An anomaly. He does not belong here. A clue, perhaps?_

The man sitting there did not fall into any of the categories of likely guests that Sherlock had expected to find at the Splendide. Ex-military, obviously, at loose ends, no doubt, because he could no longer be employed as a...oh, a surgeon, of course. War injury? Yes, likely, as indicated by the heavy wooden walking stick propped against the table. And the ever-so-faint tremor in his hand.

Sherlock stayed where he was for rather too long, oddly fascinated by the stranger in the corner. He sensed that the drab brown suit and threadbare regimental tie each served as a rather perfect camouflage for a man who was so clearly more than he seemed at first look. Despite the tidy blond hair with its hint of silver just beginning to show, despite the mild expression on the quite ordinary face, Sherlock thought that here was a man with a certain fondness for danger. While at the moment, he might have been nibbling a cucumber sandwich and sipping Darjeeling, and he was presently no doubt burdened by that walking stick, Sherlock could nevertheless see through all of that to the essence of the real man. He was a risk taker. Loyal to a fault and brave to the point of stupidity.

And Sherlock could not deny a little frisson of _something_ moving through him as he watched that fascinating contradiction of a man.

Finally, Sherlock gave himself a mental shake and moved forward. Ignoring the numerous smiles of blatant invitation that came from several of the tables, he crossed the room slowly, not stopping again until he had reached the table in the corner. “May I join you?” he asked quietly.

The man looked at him curiously for a moment and then nodded towards the second chair.

Sherlock sat before holding out his hand. “Sherlock Holmes,” he said crisply.

As they shook across the table, he could feel a few fading calluses on the other hand, located right where a gun would rest. Interesting.

“John Watson,” the man said.

There was a brief period of silence as the waitress in her crisp pinny delivered tea and a plate of sandwiches to Sherlock.

It was Watson who spoke first. “I do believe that you left more than a few broken hearts in your wake as you crossed the room,” he murmured, picking up his last sandwich.

Sherlock raised a brow at him. 

Watson gestured vaguely towards the room at large. “The lovely ladies of the Hotel Splendide. They all brightened considerably when you entered.”

Sherlock didn’t even bother to look around. “Hmmm,” he said, adding another sugar lump to his tea and stirring carefully. “Not really my area.”

Watson barely hid a smirk. “Broken hearts? Or lovely ladies?”

Sherlock said nothing.

The silence was comfortable between them for several moments. Once the sandwiches were gone, the waitress brought them warm scones with thick cream. “So, Watson,” Sherlock began.

“John,” the other man interrupted. “No need for old-fashioned formality.”

“I agree.” Sherlock looked at him for a moment and nodded sharply. “John, I already know that you are a former soldier and a doctor, surgeon specifically. But because of your wartime injury you are no longer practising. Instead, you spend your days being endlessly bored at a small surgery in London.”

John’s mouth had fallen open a little. “What? How do you--?”

Sherlock made a careless gesture, dismissing the question. “It is obvious. Well, to me it is. I will be more than happy to explain it all to you when time allows.” There was far too much cream piled on his scone, as usual, but at least there was no one here to chastise him, as had always happened when he’d been a boy. He took a careful, tidy bite, then dabbed at his mouth with the serviette. “But now,” he went on cheerfully, “I only have one question to ask.”

“And what might that be?”

“Are you also a ruthless murderer?” Sherlock already knew the answer to that question, of course. It was obvious that John was a good man. With, it must be admitted, a certain darkness lurking inside. A darkness that Sherlock found irresistible. Primarily, he posed the question because he just wanted to see John’s reaction to being asked.

At his words, John looked mildly startled and more than a little amused. “As it happens, no. Why do you ask?”

Sherlock watched as John used the tip of his tongue to wipe away a bit of stray cream from his upper lip. “I ask because I am in town to apprehend a man who has already killed three women of the very type residing in this establishment.” He indicated the room. “Women just like those. And while they might be annoying, silly creatures one and all, they still do not deserve to be strangled and left nude on the beach. When the news finally is made public, it will likely upset the visitors. According to the mayor.”

“Are you telling me that you are a police officer?” John eyed him sceptically now.

Sherlock gave a soft and elegant snort. “No, of course not. I am a consulting detective. A profession I invented and another topic we can discuss at a later time. But for now, I thought you might like to join me on the hunt.”

“The tally of subjects we have to discuss later is multiplying quickly. In fact, you seem to be planning the rest of my fortnight’s holiday,” John pointed out lightly.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment. “At the very least,” he said, before turning brisk. “So, what do you say, John Watson? Shall we catch ourselves a killer?”

“Why me?” John’s gaze flickered towards the walking stick.

“You seem the right sort,” was all that Sherlock could say, because he himself was unsure about why he was doing this.

Instead of replying immediately, John summoned the waitress and ordered himself a small brandy. When it came, he took several deliberative sips.

Sherlock just waited patiently, although inside he was a bit unsettled again, still without really understanding why. But he knew bone deep that this was the right thing to have done. Plainly, once having entered this room and seen John Watson sitting there as if waiting just for him, Sherlock could not have turned and walked away.

Finally John set the rest of the brandy aside and leaned across the table towards him, not even trying to disguise his eagerness. “What do you need of me, Sherlock?”

Feeling an unusual wave of relief surging through him, Sherlock gave the other man a slow smile and then began to talk.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from: Hotel Splendide by Ludwig Bemelmans


End file.
